There’s a lot of argument going on. I can sense it.

Be chill.

There are so many good people in society. I see it when I go out.

I am normal now.

I mean, paranoid, and mother is annoying, and I don’t have the strength to be proper with her. She asks the stupidest questions and I don’t understand how to fix her. Fixing someone is a bad idea. You don’t fix people. They are perfect mistakes. We all are.

Tonight is Russian New Year. Mom and I celebrated by cooking some food after grocery shopping. I bought a new Hawaiian Aloe plant for my room, more life is always good. But do consider the ecosystem.

The connections of all things. I have become so keenly aware of it. Immediately. The pressure of the air that connects us, the psychology, our thoughts of one another, at subconscious levels, in the rear and mid brain, without conscious apparency. Whatever that word means. You know. I say things. Well.

I’m not hearing voices today. I mean, all day, I didn’t. A few from brother The Middle after talking to him on the phone to say Happy NY. But just blips.

It’s not that the symptoms go away. It’s that you become so strong that they are no longer a problem, and perhaps even a blessing. And perhaps they realize they are no match for you, so they can finally rest. The brain and how it heals. It takes time. Sleep deprivation.

I met a blogger on here who had insomnia for three months after her father died. Fuck. Was he slaughtered by a homicidal crook? I can’t imagine what would keep someone awake like that. They must’ve been so close.

Death is on the radar. My parents are getting older. Brother is always so optimistic, he tells me they are going to live so much longer, healthy. But they don’t exercise. They don’t eat that healthy. Particularly father. He’s obese, for sure. Never measured but it’s just a waist BMI thing. So it’s easy to tell.

My patterns grow stale. Fuck you if you want too much from me. You don’t own me. Go to RAND.org and look up some random number generators or something if you’re so fucking bored.

Who do I ever talk to. The spirits. The audience. I sense it. No one reads me but you’re out there. I know. And this is recorded so someone can always go back through the archives.

Brother Baby tortured me for a day recently. Psychosis is horrifying. My latuda at 120 mg keeps the episodes at bay, or at least they have for a continuous month. And I lift weights now. I need to go for another hike at the local woods park with mom to strengthen my legs. I need to start jogging.

These are some of the thoughts that have been backlogged.

I have delusions. My mind is never clear. But I’m not a zero. I am a number. Numbers are beautiful. Math is science is art is life is consciousness is the universe. I am not a zero. But zero is good too.

I hope you are doing well this season. Cut plenty of wood for the stove and peel those potatoes!

I miss my cousin. I don’t want to fucking talk to him like this though. He speaks Russian I think and maybe no English? I don’t know really. I had a nightmare about Nick the other night. That he was a vile pretentious prick scolding me for whatever inane reason. It was every delusion and more.

He is not that. He is a good guy. I have to remember, and believe. I get so lost in my own mind. The disease takes over. I can’t let it take over.

We went to the book store, mom and I, today, and stayed for an hour or more until it closed. She had to go to the bathroom so we left a little early actually, the bathroom is outside the store by the theatre in an office space. There’s an escape room there, too. Insane. Those are supposed to be very fun, but I don’t imagine there’s much replay value. Customer base problems perhaps? I don’t know.

I want to love. There’s so much hate. Is it fake? You can’t know other’s thoughts. There’s no such thing as telepathy. No one is psychic. It’s coming down to it; I’ll probably read the science experiment papers that disproved it. I wonder what time period they’re from. Late 1800s?

There’s so much to say. But why bother.

I miss so much. Venting.

I yelled at my doctors then apologized. They’re great. But fuck them. But well, who knows…

I wish I could give something of value for you. Perhaps it is the whole picture that you see in my story that is of value, that I myself miss. I am a flawed narrator after all, I see. But I get it now. Martin Dressler and all.

Need to read The Knife Thrower (collection of short stories by Steve Millhauser) as well. I previewed skimmed the first one. Very cool.

Well. How my brain processes things. Where lie my biases? We live in a free society folks. Don’t be scared.

You toss your tar balls at me. I decompress them.

Linux joke. Computer nerd humor.

Well. I’ll leave it at that for now. I’m exhausted. The disease fucking drains me. I want to be happy. I want to live.

I shall do so.

Then again, I need to learn it’s not all about me. I talk about myself too much. Who gives a shit.

Think of the trees.

What’s a good signature, after all. Think of the trees isn’t bad.

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